


most valuable player

by Anonymous



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anal Sex, Claiming, Community: omgsexplease, Established Relationship, Gangbang, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Kent let the Aces down on the ice, so he's going to make it up to them any way he can.





	most valuable player

His hands are sore. His legs are trembling. His jaw aches around the dick he's sucking and he knows this is a punishment but honestly he wants to cry because nothing has ever felt so much like home.   
  
It's hard to concentrate--mouth working in rhythm, hands pumping--but he tries, keeps his eyes open, stays aware of what's going around him. The breath on his right is coming faster, little pained sounds, and he tries to speed that hand up, grip firmer, without anything else coming apart. He's good at this, he can do this. He can show them. They'll forgive him.   
  
Someone helps him with a hand in his hair, relieving him of the need to think so hard; the fingers twist in the curls he kept a little untrimmed, and he can tip his head back, close his eyes, let his jaw soften, work on putting suction on the dick being worked in and out of his mouth. He can squeeze the dick he's jacking harder and at the same time throw in an extra caress to the other, thumb sliding over the slit. It's good he does, because those pained sounds to his right are coming fast and--  
  
It hits him, small and warm, on the shoulder; he's been marked again. The warmth shoots through him and for a second he pauses, toes curling. Someone keeps holdIng his hair, fucking his mouth; someone else pries his right hand off their softening and over-sensitive dick. He's about to get back with the program on the left when someone else takes his wrist gently, and the hand in his hair pulls him taut, the dick in his mouth meeting the top of his throat and pushing for access past his convulsive gag. He fights to stay with it; he can  _do_  this. He can take them all--  
  
"You have to take two more," Swoops says, low and calm in his ear. When Kent opens his eyes, trying not to choke, Swoops is on one knee next to him. His eyes are dark and understanding. Kent nods a minuscule amount, a slight tremor of his eyes and chin to show he can, he's ready. He isn't and he feels like he'll break down or fly apart, but he can  _do_  this--  
  
"Pull out," Swoops says, tapping the hips Kent's face is pressed against. "Let him breathe. After he moves, you can go back in."  
  
The hand releases, the dick withdraws, and Kent sputters and coughs, bracing his hands on his thighs. He's still coughing when someone forces a water bottle past his lips, chokes on the water pouring into his mouth before managing a swallow, before drinking it for real.   
  
"Okay, move him," Swoops says when the water is done, and hands, many hands, reach out to pick him up. He droops and lets them, lets them carry him bodily to the bed. He greets its soft surface like a lover, knees curling to kiss the floor, and closes his eyes while they decide what else to do to him. He's willing.   
  
"Jimmy here," Swoops says, "didn't get any ice time tonight. But he'd still have done better than you if he had."  
  
That rebuke stings him, pulls a splinter from his skin, shifts a weight one closer to paying the debt he owes to this team; he didn't score for them tonight, but if he can do this his body hasn't totally failed him.   
  
"I don't--I mean, it's all right," Jimmy babbles, as he kneels in place between Kent's knees. "I haven't scored  _any_  league points yet, so it's not my place to really--"  
  
"Kid." Kent picks his head off the comforter, voice rusty as a hinge. "You've got the talent to be here. You get to be a part of this."  
  
It is different, wonderfully soft and indulgent, the way Jimmy fucks him. He's new, has no frustration to take out on Kent's ass, and is a little in awe of touching his idol; his hands skate lines of adoration over Kent's body, and he self-consciously bends down to press a kiss into the bite mark on Kent's shoulder. Kent has been fucked by so many people already there's no stretch, no burn, little need for lube; a slut as thoroughly prepared as him can be penetrated as easily as butter. "Oh, wow," Jimmy sighs, and Kent feels good for something.   
  
There's movement, someone sitting on the bed, hands carding through his hair; a familiar set of thighs, a rigid cock gleaming with Kent's spit. A job unfinished. Kent lifts his head, lets the person slip their leg under it; obeys silent direction to lay his head on one leg and accept the head of the cock offered to him, suckling it like the teat of a bottle.   
  
They're so good to him, this team. He doesn't feel worth this gentleness, a hand stroking his cheek as he sucks, Jimmy's reverent innocence and the easy joy with which he thrusts into Kent's body. He wants to give to them, to show them--to take them all, to put them all in him. To belong.   
  
The hand on his cheek flexes, all fingers curling but one, and he suckles harder, wanting the warmth he knows is coming. He can taste it, thin and bitter. (Even after men leave this team, they linger in his mouth.) He wants more, wants harder, wants to be owned.  
  
"Jimmy," Swoops says, gentle and authoritative, and his touch makes Kent shift the angle of his back, spread his knees farther. He's so ready. "Go like hell."  
  
The come fills his mouth then, clouds his mind as pleasure arcs through him; Swoops knows  _just how_  to use these young guys on him. Kent fights to swallow, empties his mouth as the legs draw away from him, just so he can let the gratitude and anguish past his lips as Jimmy lances him, hot and fast and penetrating. His dick is growing hard again for the third time tonight. He doesn't deserve any of this. (He brought his punishment on himself)  
  
Jimmy orgasms, braces against him, little noises of delight as his come fills Kent's ass and other come leaks down the backs of his legs. When he eases free Kent crawls wearily forward and throws himself onto his side. He is full and sated but he  _wants_ , and right now all he has energy for is waiting.   
  
Swoops says something and the last group of guys start to leave then, patting Kent on the shoulder or tousling his hair, filing out to the guest shower or to their cars. There's a time after that Kent is maybe passed out for; he opens his eyes again and the room is dimly lit but empty, except for Swoops quietly rinsing out water bottles, throwing towels in the laundry.   
  
"Hey," Kent croaks, and Swoops comes over to him. He's serious and kind, but no-nonsense as a trainer as he brings a bag of wipes and hooks Kent's ankle on his shoulder and starts wiping him down. He ignores Kent's wriggles and shivers, cleaning sweat and come and lube off his legs and ass; he's straightfaced and to the point until all his skin is clean.   
  
(Inside, he... isn't clean. But neither is he dirty. For the moment he's still filled and warm and theirs, and Swoops' cold fingers with fresh lube only add to what's already there. He knows Kent wants this and abides by it.)   
  
"One more," Swoops says, flipping him onto his back and pushing his legs up. Kent could let him press ankles to shoulders, legs helpless and surrendered, but he doesn't; his knees remain flexed and active, and Swoops remains just before the point of decision, before pushing down or thrusting in. Kent's ass aches with absence. They look at each other.   
  
"I could have done better tonight," Kent says.   
  
"You are the best hockey player in the  _entire world,_ " Swoops answers, accusation and exoneration.  _You could have done better_  and  _You're already good enough_.  
  
"I love you," Kent says.   
  
Swoops leans down until his shoulders are resting against Kent's calves, their foreheads touching. "You belong to us," he says. "You belong to  _me_. I am going to hold onto you for the rest of my life."  
  
 _Let's get married when we get back to Vegas,_  Kent thinks.  _Let's run away together. Let's get matching tattoos._  But what he says is, "I want you to mark me."  
  
Swoops kisses him sweetly, then pushes up off the bed and walks away. Kent lets his legs fall open and Swoops comes back, ballpoint pen in hand.   
  
"Here," he says, and when Kent gives over his right hand, stretches out the forearm and signs it. His tidy copperplate signature that he uses for legal documents, not his autograph scribble. It tickles when he dots the i. "You're mine." It will be hidden by long sleeves, but it might be visible in the locker room, where Kent and Swoops sometimes have to let people know who has first claim anyway.   
  
"Come and fuck me?" Kent asks of his twenty-third customer of the night, aching, heart full.   
  
Swoops does.


End file.
